


Guilty Until Proven Otherwise

by Leni



Series: Guilty Until Proven Otherwise [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-05-22 19:34:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6091762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leni/pseuds/Leni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The only job Belle French can find is with Mr. Gold as her boss. The problem? He was the main suspect for the murder of his wife.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Guilty Until Proven Otherwise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tigriswolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigriswolf/gifts).



> Written for Tigriswolf at [Comment Fic](http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/697000.html?thread=91740840#t91740840). Prompt: **alternate universe**.
> 
> Um. It's also a _bit_ longer than the required 10 words. oops?

On the first day in her new job, Belle is terrified of her new boss. He was acquitted, she reminds herself, and even if half the town whispers that he bribed the judge and the other half swear that his man threatened the jury, Belle knows from experience how malicious gossip can be.

They call her 'odd', and though that's nothing to the very real, very official accusations against Mr. Gold, Belle still is hesitant to believe the talk in the streets.

Not that the man does himself any favors. In this bleak, groaning house he calls home and base office, it takes even an imagination less fertile than hers to picture a murderer plotting within its walls.

Belle shudders, and reminds herself this won't be forever.

There just aren't enough positions for her (lack of) qualifications, and not one that will pay enough to let her and her father stay afloat until the flowershop is out of the red. A few months, and she can pack her bags at last and leave this small town behind with her conscience clean and her father's business secure again.

One day at a time. One file to organize and then the other.

There are mountains of paperwork to straighten, after his enforced absence from the day-to-day minutae of his business. Whatever Mr. Gold's man does, it does not include filing or even doing more with the incoming documents than to shove them into the nearest drawer

Her main duty, Mr. Dove had explained in the interview that had been more of a verbal contract since she'd been the sole applicant, was to take care that Mr. Gold's archives returned to their former orderly glory.

The caretaker of the written word, so to speak, and Mr. Dove had not understood why she'd laughed when she'd said that aloud. It just happened to be the description of her dream job, except that included a library to be managed and an interested public to be nurtured, instead of these lugubrious hallways and a man who was not to be approached - according, again, to Mr. Dove - even in the direst of circumstances.

But if she can't see him, it means that Mr. Gold won't be seeing her either.

Until her nerves settle, that might be for the best.

Sadly enough, she is still anxious by lunchtime, and the sad atmosphere as she makes her way from office to the kitchen downstairs doesn't help matters. She picks a sandwich from the well-stocked fridge and bypasses the coffee machine altogether. Caffeine is the last thing she needs today, and she doesn't like the taste too much anyway.

Instead she picks a bag of chamomile, hoping for its soothing properties, and one of the pretty porcelain cups in the pantry. As the rest of the house, it looks too expensive for daily use, and Belle decides to bring her own cup tomorr---

"Ah," a masculine voice cuts in. "Miss French, I assume."

To her shame, she yelps as she rounds toward the kitchen door.

Whatever amiability he was feeling - and his greeting was amiable enough - is erased when she looks into his face. He looks gaunter than she remembers, much too thin, but then it's been months since she's passed him on the street or seen him at a public event, and it's been rough months for him. The cane in his left hand should make him look more vulnerable, but everyone in Storybrooke knows not to underestimate the man. She clears her throat, hoping that a smile will soften him. "Hello, Mr. Gold."

If anything, his expression hardens.

"Dove said you looked competent enough," he says, his tone implying that he doubts the other man's assessment. "He never mentioned that you'd be so much of a ninny you'd jump a foot in the air when someone spoke to you."

Belle cringes at the adjective. She's always been the sensible one, with a dreamer for a father and all her flights of fancy properly buried in adventure books and romance novels. Real life needs a goal and the drive to achieve it.

Or in this case, steady wages and not to be fired on the spot.

Mr. Gold is right. She overreacted. 

"I'm- I'm sorry." She really is. This is his home. He shouldn't be made to feel uncomfortable under his own roof. "You surprised me."

He snorts. "Scared you, you mean."

Belle presses her lips together.

"Won't you ask?" he snaps, glaring at her.

She shakes her head, clutching her empty cup to her chest. She is glad that she didn't get to pour the hot water before he arrived, or she'd have just burned herself.

He taps his cane against the floor, studying her from head to toes. Other men look at her, and they stop to admire the shine of her hair, or the shape of her lips; the more forward even leer happily at her breasts or down her bare legs, and they smirk in smug satisfaction as if she displayed them for their benefit.

Mr. Gold is neither awed nor satisfied. Instead he looks as if he's measuring the tenseness in her muscles, and how alert her fight-or-flight response is.

At last he places one hand over the other, supporting himself on the cane, and gives her a slow smile. "Well, well. Can't have this little awkwardness cramping the space, can we? I'm assured there's little enough of it already. The free space, I mean."

Belle waits for him to continue. This is the longest Mr. Gold has ever talked to her, and she doubts he really wants to have a conversation about the extensive list of furniture crowding every room.

"Better to clear the air, don't you think?"

He looks at her expectantly, and Belle responds with a wary nod.

She regrets it in the next moment.

"The question is, of course, did I or did I not kill my ex wife? After all, anyone in this hellhole will tell you Milah gave me reason enough." He ignores her widened eyes. "The answer, as you and every soul in this town knows is: no, I didn't. Officially, the bitch was dead when I arrived, and sworn witnesses have said as much."

The cup must not be as fragile as it looks, or it would break in her sudden tight grip.

"I see," he says musingly, looking almost amused as Belle forces her fingers to loosen. "I can tell you know what is _unofficially_ said. Dr. Whale is in my pocket, and the Sheriff Department... well, everyone knows Sheriff Graham was too busy 'escorting' the Mayor around, and it would be a miracle if his deputy was sober enough to tell me apart from that Marion Lock he's so enamored of.

And yet, those were the main witnesses. Good pillars of community against the lone voice speaking against me."

Nobody had known or cared about Killian Jones before Milah Gold's death. Just another sailor arrived to port, one of many who spent a few weeks in their one inn, raised some trouble at the Rabbit Hole, and then disappeared with his ship.

Now they all know that he and Milah had carried on for months, even from before the Golds' divorce had made its first appearance in court. A perfect motive, some said.

Killian Jones was the loudest among them.

"You must have heard about poor Mr. Jones. Everyone has. Heartbreaking story, really." Mr. Gold gives a long sigh, as compassionate as his eyes are forgiving. "Another poor orphan, lost his only brother to the ocean, and that was only the start of his tragic tale until he came to Storybrooke. Here he became the most fortunate of souls and found the light of true love -" It sounds like _twoo luv_ , the way he says it, with all the mockery he can heap on those two syllables. "Now he'll scream from the clock tower that he's innocent as a lamb, and I'm the wicked beast in his tale.

Tell me, Miss French. Do I look beastly at all?"

Belle forces herself not to nod.

It's not his appearance. He is a handsome enough man, for all he needs a few extra pounds to look completely healthy. His clothes confirm him as a successful businessman, and not the lunatic people try to paint with their tales. He looks as a man who never loses control.

It makes her wonder what happens when he does.

"Ah," he says, eyeing her as if he can read her mind. "Perhaps I am, then."

He turns around, clearly intending to leave her alone.

"Don't!" Belle says, and then is at a loss when he looks at her over his shoulder. "I... I...."

"Are you quitting, Miss French?"

She shakes her head.

He is bitter and a bit scary, but then Belle supposes that he's got reason for both.

"Then finish your lunch and back to the office with you."

"Yes, sir."

"Have the accounts ready for the East End tenement as soon as possible. I'm afraid Mr. Dove has forgotten that when the contract says they'll be evicted after two months without handing in the rent, then they _will_ be evicted."

He is looking at her, watching how she reacts to his words.

Belle nods and, more subdued this time, she repeats, "Yes, sir."

"Oh, and answer the phone. Note down every name and their number, but don't pass me any of the calls. Not even if Madam Mayor calls." He pauses. " _Especially_ not Madam Mayor."

All of Storybrooke knows that Mr. Gold is at war with the Mills women, and has been from before Belle - or Regina, for that matter - were even born. The older people say that Gold wasn't amused when his fiancée left him for a richer man, and years later Cora swore vengeance when Gold ruined her husband and left them barely enough to survive.

"Of course," Belle says.

"And if she tries to bully you - and she will - just tell her..." He waits until she looks up at him. "Tell her that her mother is next." And then he almost sing-songs, "Crimes of passion are always in fashion, aren't they?"

The cup slides through her fingers.

He sneers. "Just a quip, dearie."

She wets her lips, considers crouching to see if the tea cup can be salvaged and, slowly, decides to follow through. If she can't pick up some broken crockery in front of him, then she will never be able to keep this job. "It's just chipped," she murmurs, trying wildly to change the subject.

She looks up, and makes herself smile. "Don't worry," she says, showing him the tiny chip, "this way I'll know which one is mine."

He stares for a long moment, and if he weren't Mr. Gold, the richest and most loathed man in Storybrooke - and this, even before the murder of his wife - Belle would crack a smile at his expression.

That is the look of a man who has no clue what to do with the female before him. Belle is familiar with that. And yet there's no hint of exasperation.

He can't be that bad, can he?

"It's just a cup," he finally says. "Throw it to the trash for all I care."

"Well, _I_ care."

She hasn't been living from hand to mouth for months just to throw away a perfectly serviceable item.

This time, the rhythm of the cane is faster, the only clue that he's casting for something to say. "You really need this job, don't you?"

As if he can't think of another reason to stay in his employ after this little chat.

To be truthful, neither can Belle.

"Yes, I do."

Nodding to himself, Mr. Gold finally leaves.

Belle looks after him until he disappears from view, then glances down at her new cup - for it's hers now, he didn't want it at all - and passes her thumb over the rim. The new, uneven edges aren't sharp enough to break the skin, so she worries the spot as she reflects on the last ten minutes.

Mr. Gold is just as cold as everyone says, and if she's not scared yet, she has the feeling that he'll want her to be.

"It's not forever," she tells herself for the thousandth time.

It just seems like it will be.

 

The End  
23/02/16

**Author's Note:**

> Take this bunny and run with it. And link me up!
> 
> Or, you know, comment if you liked this bit. ;)


End file.
